


Sick Day

by Crustac3an



Series: The Hospital [6]
Category: Flight Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:15:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crustac3an/pseuds/Crustac3an
Summary: Fleming spends a week in quarantine. He's not thrilled about it, but then, he never is.





	Sick Day

Fleming had woken up that morning with a taste like acid in his mouth, a feeling like cement in his bones, and the sensation of sandpaper being scraped across his lungs every time he took a breath. He knew better than to try to hide it. Even if he wasn't visibly oozing something, someone would figure it out before too long. Tremain in particular seemed to have a sixth sense for this kind of thing- because of course he _would._

Joints creaking and muscles screaming in protest, Fleming hauled himself out of bed and, for the third time in a month, reluctantly called in sick.  
_  
Dr. Florence Fleming research log 25th Midwinter 1237: Wyrmwound Plague strain F-931_

_Day one of infection. Current symptoms: pain, fatigue, mild respiratory distress. And this awful taste I can't get out of my mouth._

Claustrophobia was one of the few problems Fleming did not suffer from, and for that, at least, he could be grateful. "His" room in quarantine was little more than a cell. A small, airless, sterile white cell. The floor and walls were cold, easy-to-wash tile. The hard cot in the corner was covered with cheap, thin bedding that Fleming knew would be burned as soon as he left. Unlike many of the rooms in the hospital, it did have a window, but that was a small comfort. It opened onto the hallway outside, and unless someone happened to walk by, the only thing to see out of it was another unpainted white wall. To be fair, it was only mostly identical to the walls inside the room- there was a poster hanging on it promoting proper decontamination procedure. Fleming had seen that poster so many times that he had come to hate it even more than the walls it hung on. 

There was one thing that set his room apart from the rest of the quarantine ward: a desk. A solid, ugly metal thing placed there to allow him to continue his work even on his bad days. He hadn't asked, but he was sure it had been Tremain's idea. It would be just like him to think of something like that. A sheaf of fresh paper and a pen were always provided for him, too. Fleming was never sure how they dealt with his notes. Maybe they just burned those, too.

Today, Vascula had drawn the short straw, and the trip down to the quarantine ward had been short and blessedly silent. Wordlessly, she ushered him inside. He hesitated for a moment, savoring his last moment of freedom for who knew how long, and then stepped inside. The door shut softly behind him, and he tried not to listen to the clicking of the lock as it slid shut. 

Forlornly, he looked over at the desk. He should work, he knew. But he was so tired. And he really wasn't in the mood to write about how terrible he was feeling, no matter how often the other doctors hounded him to. What was there to say? Surely everyone knew what he thought about his condition by now. He'd only been taking notes on it for years. 

He'd sit down for only a moment, he decided. And then he would write something, just to shut Tremain up.

\---

When he finally woke up, he didn't know what time it was, and it didn't matter. Time seemed to stretch when Fleming was quarantined, to blend together into a single, unbearably slow moment. And then, when it was finally over, it would snap back, every second passing in an instant until the next time he woke up coughing and miserable.

Fleming stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. He couldn't tell if that crack in the tile was getting longer or not. It hadn't been there the last time he'd been quarantined. It was something new. That was exciting.

He tried not to think of it as imprisonment. Really, he did. Tremain, ever-apologetic, maintained that it technically wasn't for a number of reasons: Fleming was made as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances. He was among friends. It was for his own good.

It was that last one that really got on Fleming's nerves. It was obviously, demonstrably for the good of _everyone else._ He was a biohazard. He simply couldn't be allowed to be around other people when he was sick. That had been proven to him over and over again his whole life, and frankly, he was sick and tired of the people around him trying to pretend he didn't know it. 

He sat up slowly, a quiet groan of pain escaping his raw throat as he forced himself out of his cot. Somehow, he felt even worse than he had the day before. His hopes of getting out of quarantine any time soon were quickly disappearing.

Sparing one last, longing look at his uncomfortable bed, Fleming plodded over to his desk and got to work.  
_  
Dr. Florence Fleming research log 26th Midwinter 1237: Wyrmwound Plague strain F-931_

_Day two of quarantine. Current symptoms: fatigue, worsening muscular pain and respiratory distress. Possible new symptom: irritability, maybe? I really can't tell._

He woke up the next day still at his desk, now with a crick in his neck and his notes smeared and nearly illegible. He wiped as much of the sickly greenish Wyrmwound pus as he could from his notepad. He almost sighed, but it hurt too much to take a large enough breath. This time, his notes were definitely going to be burned.

He took the notepad back to bed with him, anyway, even though it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He wasn't getting up again if he could help it. As tiny as his room was, the effort of walking across it felt like climbing a mountain.

\---

__  
__  
_Day three of quarantine. Symptoms: still tired, still sore, still can't breathe. I can't tell if I'm annoyed because I'm sick or if I'm just too tired to pretend I don't hate everyone here._

On the third day, he had a visitor. Fleming was fortunate enough to be awake at the same time as Romero was sent down to check in on him. It could have been worse. The last time, Tremain had deigned to come down here. But things had been awkward between Fleming and Romero since he'd asked her out a month before. At least the awkwardness would be a break from the monotony. 

Romero gave him a brief wave from the other side of the window. After a moment's hesitation, Fleming returned it. He'd been considering just lying back down and pretending to be asleep, but who knew when the next time someone would be down here while he was awake? She wouldn't have anything to say- or at least, hopefully, she wouldn't- but Fleming could only take so much isolation. She offered him a thumbs-up. Maybe she meant it as some kind of general encouragement. Maybe he just looked so awful that she was truly impressed that he could raise his arm. It did hurt.

Romero didn't stay long, but she offered him a sincere-sounding goodbye and another wave before she left. And then Fleming was left alone in the silent quarantine ward, with nothing but the sound of his own rasping breaths to keep him company until he finally fell again into dreamless sleep.

\---

__  
_Day four. Still sick._

_Day five, still sick._

_Day seven? Eight? Still sick._

_Nothing to report except that I can't be bothered to waste paper on this anymore._

The days had begun to blend together, as they always did. Without a window or a clock, Fleming had no way of knowing what time it was, especially as he tried to sleep through as much of the day as possible. Anything to get well and get out of here faster. 

The crack on the ceiling had definitely expanded slightly since he had first noticed it. That, at least, proved to him that time was indeed really passing.

\---

  
_Dr. Florence Fleming research log, some time in winter 1237: Wyrmwound Plague strain F-931_

__

_I'm not actually sure what day it is. I think I slept through a few. Symptoms finally improving. Hopefully someone comes and lets me out of here eventually, but who knows when that's going to be._

The first time Fleming woke up without being greeted with a wave of pain was the first time he allowed himself to think about being allowed out. Once he did, though, the floodgates were opened, and he couldn't think about anything else. As soon as he felt well enough to walk across it, the room finally started to feel as tiny as it was. In fact, it started to feel smaller by the minute. 

By the time he was officially deemed "fit to return to work" he was sure he was going to go crazy. When he heard the sound of the door being unlocked, he could hardly stop himself from bolting. He managed to restrain himself, walking calmly outside to see Vascula once again there to meet him. That was strange. Usually, it was an apologetic Tremain greeting him upon his release. He was too much of a control freak to let anyone else handle things.

It was like the fates had finally smiled upon him. He couldn't help smiling himself as he reached down and accepted the surgical mask she offered him. He put it on without complaint. Being unable to remove his mask was usually a painful reminder that he was a hazard to the people around him, but today it was a small price to pay for his freedom.

Despite the tiredness of his still-sore limbs, he made his way back upstairs with a spring in his step. He threw open the first window he came to, leaning out and relishing the feeling of the hot desert wind upon his face. There was little to see outside but sand and decay, but to Fleming, it was the most beautiful morning he had ever seen.

\---

As he had known it would, the time seemed to fly by in a heartbeat. Though he often had little to do with his time between patients, he did his best to spend it wisely. It felt like a world of possibilities had opened up to him. Maybe he could patch things up with Romero. They could have been friends, if he hadn't screwed that up. Maybe he could get some real work done- with Tremain's most recent project in the can, surely there was nothing more pressing than getting a little more support for Fleming's own research. Maybe he could just take a few days off and go outside for a while. It had been so long since he'd really gotten to enjoy fresh air and sunlight, as much as those things existed out here in the wastes. Maybe things would get better. Maybe he would get better. Maybe....

It seemed like only minutes had passed before the day when Fleming woke up feeling like his room must be a thousand degrees, too dizzy to see straight, unsure whether he was going to faint or vomit first. Though the room hadn't stopped spinning since he opened his eyes, he dragged himself out of bed and reluctantly called in sick.

Vascula led him down to the quarantine ward silently, and Fleming kept his eyes on the floor as he walked. She once again ushered him inside and closed the door, and, dragging his feet, Fleming made his way over to his cot and laid down.

The next morning, he blearily opened his eyes to see that crack in the ceiling had been repaired since the last time he had been here. So much for that.


End file.
